


The one man I could never lie to

by DraculaBackwards



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Bath Sex, Claws, Dirty Talk, Internalized Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Breeding, Overstimulation, Slow Sex, Sorry if this is tagged wrong/weirdly I'm havign to actively fight the tag system, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, as we speak it is stealing my bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraculaBackwards/pseuds/DraculaBackwards
Summary: After the events of the final story of Beckett's Jyhad Diary, Beckett and Anatole spend some time getting reacquainted with each other.
Relationships: Anatole/Beckett (Vampire: The Masquerade)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	The one man I could never lie to

**Author's Note:**

> Beckett is pre-op trans in this fic- normally I headcanon him as post op (or, like, post op in a world where fleshcrafting exists and people can just switch out their genitals) but I'm also trans and I'm working through some stuff. I've used the word 'clit' to describe that part of his body and sort of just used vague terms to describe everything else ('entrance', 'inside him' etc) bc that's how I talk about myself. I think I'm the first person to put up a trans Beckett fic so like *confetti*.
> 
> I'm also aware that Vykos isn't technically in this bit of the story but I wanted someone to glare ineffectually at Beckett and I like them as a character so They're Here Now

Beckett didn’t question it when Anatole scooped him up and carried him from the grounds of Castel d’Ombro, with Lucita resting a hand on the Malkavian’s arm. It was a long walk to the hotel that the makeshift dig team had claimed as a temporary haven, and while he had been tossed a blood bag, he was still barely out of torpor, and his body was shaking with the remnants of the fear he’d felt when the sarcophagus slid open. He could feel Vykos’ glare even while his face was buried in Anatole’s shoulder, but he reasoned that their comments would be worse if he were clinging to Vykos themself for support or constantly falling over.

Anatole felt familiar, despite his long absence. There was a softness, a comfort to him, almost, and Beckett was reminded of the feeling of slipping into an old jumper, or wrapping a well-worn blanket around oneself. He murmured half-nonsenses to Beckett as he walked- long, rambling stories that he’d been told by the possessed table in the Giovanni house they’d been to, or comforting whispers he’d heard from the far corners of the Cobweb, or the five separate versions of their first meeting that he’d come up with over the years. Beckett floated in them, the blood and the dirt and the ash all miles away from his little daydream world. 

Anatole sat Beckett down a few feet away from the hotel’s car park, and though Beckett still clung to him- for his legs were still trembling, and he couldn’t stand the humiliation of having Vykos laugh at him when he, inevitably, fell- he felt an aching sense of loss when his feet touched the ground. Beckett spotted Cesare smoking just outside the hotel’s door, and he buried himself further into Anatole’s jacket, unwilling and unable to answer questions just yet. Anatole seemingly realised his intention, and wrapped his arm around Beckett’s shoulders, draping him in a thin layer of Obfuscate. 

When the party split, each of them going to their separate rooms, Anatole followed Beckett to his. Beckett didn’t question this, either; Anatole hadn’t been with the group when they’d initially booked the rooms, so he didn’t have one of his own, and Beckett hardly expected Okulos or Vykos to take him in. His hands were shaking too much to get the little keycard bipper thing to work properly, so Anatole wrapped his own hand around his wrist, steadying him so that he could open the door. 

Instinctually, Beckett wanted to throw himself down onto the bed immediately. He’d been lucky, and got a room on the basement floor, so he wouldn’t have to worry about windows or sunlight, and he’d flipped the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door before he left for the castle. 

Anatole quickly drew Beckett into his arms as soon as he took a step in the direction of the bed, knocking the door closed behind him with his heel, “You’re filthy,” he whispered, “You should shower.”

“I can’t…” Beckett exhaled, heavily, trying to stop his voice from trembling, “I don’t trust myself to stay upright. Not when I’m like this.”

Anatole hummed, “Do you have a bath? I could run one for you while you secure your documents.”

“I…” Beckett licked his lips, taking a moment to process the wrenching feeling in his gut, to isolate the source and draw it out, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

Beckett had expected him to laugh, but Anatole nodded, and nipped at his throat as he withdrew, “Lead me to your bathroom?” he said, lacing his fingers with Beckett’s.

Beckett was just about able to support himself by bracing his hand against the wall, leading Anatole across his suite and into the relatively generous en-suite. The shower and the bath were on opposite sides of the room, so Beckett dropped himself down in the space roughly in the middle of them, with Anatole catching him and guiding him gently to the floor.

“You must be more gentle with yourself,” he chided, pressing a kiss to Beckett’s ash-smeared forehead, “What would I do if you were to get hurt?”

“Most likely throw me to the Madness Network and run away, if your past behaviour is any predictor.”

Beckett felt bad about bringing it up, for a few short seconds, but it quickly dawned on him that if Anatole were to leave again, it would be much better for him to do it now, while Beckett could pretend that his presence was a delusion bought on by the sheer proximity to Vykos, or the sarcophagus, or how tired he was.

Anatole did not leave. He stilled for a moment, then traced a hand across Beckett’s cheek, “I was not myself.” he said, “Not fully, anyway. The actions were my own, yes, but the idea behind them- the horrible, poisonous idea- had been implanted, most likely by one of my own clan. I will understand if you are still angry with me.”

Beckett reached up, lacing his still gloved hand into Anatole’s hair, “If I may ask, what was the idea?”

Tears pricked at Anatole’s eyes, and he fussed at pulling off Beckett’s jacket rather than meeting his gaze, “You will think me an imbecile.” 

Beckett let himself be maneuvered, toying with the ends of Anatole’s hair once he was free of the jacket, “I already think you an imbecile, Anatole. You had a conversation with a table.”

Anatole laughed, “A possessed table.”

“I only have your word for that, and you’re avoiding the question.” Beckett laced his hand through Anatole’s hair properly, “I don’t care how ridiculous it sounds- the idea got to you. What was it?”

Anatole shifted, lowering himself so that his head was in Beckett’s lap. He lay there, in silence, with Beckett’s fingers running through his hair, for what must have been at least two minutes before he spoke up, “I read your diary.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“You, ah…” Anatole picked at a piece of mud on Beckett’s trousers with his somehow-flawless nails, “You called me brother.”

Oh. 

“I don’t…” Beckett swallowed, his mouth dry despite the blood he’d drank, “I don’t think of you as a brother, you know. In fact I, ah,” he laughed awkwardly, in an attempt to break the tension, “I think it would be rather odd if I did,”

“Then why do you refer to me as such?” Anatole grasped onto the hand that wasn’t running through his hair, “At least, that was what I thought. How can I know, truly, what you feel? How can you understand what I feel? You are not…” He closed his eyes, seemingly unable to bear looking at Beckett, “You are not a Malkavian.”

Beckett’s grip tightened around Anatole’s hand, “So you tried for the next best thing?”

“It seemed like my only option.” Anatole tutted, opening his eyes and turning his head to meet Beckett’s gaze, “I told you that you would think me an imbecile.”

Beckett’s trembling had subsided somewhat, so he was just about able to pull Anatole up so he was sitting in Beckett’s lap properly. He tucked a stray hair behind Anatole’s ear, “I would never think that of you,” he said, softly, and brought Anatole’s lips to his own.

The first time he’d kissed Anatole- in the corner of one of the hedge mazes in the French royal court- he’d been worried that he’d grow tired of kissing him. That the sparks and the heat and the longing would fade, and that he’d never be able to feel the fire behind it again. While he’d been somewhat correct, he needn’t have been concerned. The sparks had quickly given way to a sort of quiet, gentle burning, the kind one would find in a hearth fire, or a candle tucked away in a reading alcove. Anatole’s kisses were almost always slow, almost always gentle, and this one was no different, but Beckett swore that he could taste the tang of Anatole’s bloody tears.

He pulled back, and wiped at Anatole’s face with his shirt sleeve, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”  
“I’m sorry too.” Anatole went to bury his face in Beckett’s hair, then withdrew, grimacing, when he got a mouthful of dirt and ash, “You need to bathe.”

Beckett whimpered, clutching Anatole closer to him, “Don’t leave me.”

Anatole blinked, then slid Beckett’s glasses off, slowly, “Is that what you really want to say?”

Beckett frowned, but let out a laugh upon realising what Anatole wanted from him, “Anatole,” he said, “Darling. Beloved. Light of my unlife. Owner of my heart.”

Anatole flicked Beckett’s forehead, “Don’t push it, now,”

Beckett smiled, catching the hand Anaole had flicked him with and pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “Will you finger me while I bathe?”

Anatole’s face lit up, “I’ll do you one better,” he said, “I’ll make love to you, when you’re clean.”

Beckett’s eyes widened, “Are you up to it?”

“I, ah, I’d rather not be fully undressed, not during, but otherwise I feel fine about it. Excited, even.” he began, slowly, to work the buttons of Beckett’s shirt open, “I’ve been without you for too long. It may be selfish, but I don’t think I can live with myself if I’m not inside you when I make you come,” he pulled the shirt off, and Beckett shivered when Anatole dragged his tongue across the relatively clean patches of skin, “It may be an idea for you to shower first, just so we don’t have to replace the bathwater. Can you stand?”

“I can try.” Beckett attempted to stand up under his own power, and when that didn’t work he let Anatole pull him to his feet. He was still slightly wobbly, but he could hold himself vaguely upright without support. Anatole dropped to his knees again almost immediately, unlacing Beckett’s boots, and Beckett pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the counter, near to where Anatole had placed his glasses. When Anatole rose again, Beckett toed off his boots as Anatole unbuckled his belt, and awkwardly kicked his trousers and underwear off when Anatole’s hands moved to roam his back. He pressed his lips to Anatole’s again, but he was tugged off before he could properly deepen the kiss.

“Shower.” said Anatole, turning Beckett around so he was facing it and giving him a gentle shove, “I’ll kiss you when you’re clean.” 

Beckett tutted at the interruption, but nonetheless scrambled to wash the dirt and grime from his body, watching through the misty glass as Anatole began to draw his bath. He was careful, despite his haste, scrubbing every inch of his body and going through the long, tedious process of washing his hair three times over. He was rewarded handsomely for his efforts, with Anatole rushing over to kiss him the moment he emerged.

“Much better,” said Anatole, brushing Beckett’s wet hair out of his face.

Beckett frowned, “You’ll get your clothes wet.”

“Oh, it’s more than worth it.” Anatole mouthed at the junction between Beckett’s neck and his shoulder, trailing a path down his spine with his fingertips. Beckett itched to do the same, but he was too nervous about somehow scratching Anatole’s back with his now-exposed claws. As if sensing his worry, Anatole took each of Beckett’s hands in one of his, placing one on his waist and bringing one up to his mouth, “You wrote that you could never lie to me,” he chided, pressing kisses to Beckett’s jagged fingernails.

“That I did.” Beckett was very still, trying his best not to move and accidentally scrape Anatole, “Why are you mentioning it now?”

“Aren’t you lying by omission by shielding me from yourself?” Anatole took Beckett’s index finger into his mouth, and Beckett froze completely, desperately trying not to injure anything sensitive. Anatole rolled his eyes, and released Beckett’s finger, “I’ve accepted the dangers, my dearest. If I am to be wounded, then I would rather it be you who wounds me.”

“You don’t need to be wounded-”

“But I want to be,” murmured Anatole, “If my choice is between having all of you and dealing with some minor scrapes or having half of you and being unblemished, then my path is clear.”

Beckett groaned, “You told me you’d finger me, not make me question my identity.” 

Anatole grinned, “I told you I’d finger you when you were bathing.”

“I suppose I should get in the bath then.” Beckett trailed his claws up Anatole’s side, boldened by the Malkavian’s insistence.

“I suppose you should,” said Anatole. Without any warning, he suddenly hoisted Beckett up into a simple bridal carry, and Beckett only just managed to loop his arms around Anatole’s neck before his feet were off the ground. He’d half expected Anatole to dump him unceremoniously into the bathwater, but he was lowered into it carefully- reverently, almost. He shifted his hands, pulling Anatole in for another, deeper, more urgent kiss.

Anatole looked pained when he broke away, but shook it off quickly, “You have lubricant?”

“There’s some in the little basket the hotel gave me.” Beckett pecked Anatole’s lips again, “Though I’m not sure we’ll need it.”

Anatole tutted, “Allow me to dote on you.” He removed his jacket as he walked over to the counter, laying it down near Beckett’s things before he began to rifle through the basket.

Beckett sank down into the water, letting his eyes slip closed. He felt the tension of the night begin to seep from his muscles, and he let out a contented sigh. Things had gone alright, relatively speaking. He wasn’t dead, Kemintiri didn’t have a copy of his records, and Gehenna wasn’t suddenly inevitable. He’d earned at least a few moments peace.

He didn’t open his eyes when Anatole trailed a hand up his thigh, though he did let out a shuddering gasp when he pressed a cold fingertip against his clit.

“Ask me for it,” whispered Anatole, his words curling around Beckett like heavy smoke.

Beckett shivered, “Will you fuck me with your fingers, Anatole?”

“With pleasure,” said Anatole, sliding in one finger up to the first knuckle.

Beckett gasped, the strength to do much else dissolved in the water. He cracked one eye open, lazily, “More,” he whispered.

Anatole smirked, “As much as you want.” He moved to nibble on Beckett’s ear as he slowly pushed his index finger into him, leading Beckett to keen, “Was there anyone else? While I was gone, I mean.”

“Vykos.” muttered Beckett, barely audible, “They kissed me as a cover when some kine overheard us talking, and I asked them how- there, right there- how many tongues they had.”

Anatole hummed, curiously, “How many?” 

“At that time? I counted twenty-three. Apparently they’ve taken to collecting them from people who misgender them.” Beckett moved his head to kiss Anatole deeply, groaning into it as a second finger was added.

“Is that a recent endeavour?” asked Anatole, scissoring his fingers slightly, “Twenty-three doesn’t seem very many. I think I get misgendered about five times a day at least.”

“They’ve been at it since- oh!” Beckett’s hand flew up, scraping his claws across Anatole’s scalp, and splashing him with bathwater, “Since the beginning of the decade. You forget how accepting society’s become.”

Anatole nodded, then teased a third finger at Beckett’s entrance, “What did you do with them?”

“It was mostly kissing, but they, ah, ah, they ate me out in the back of their car-Anatole, please-” Beckett buried his face in Anatole’s neck, water be damned, “It was good. I’ll likely do it again.”

Anatole hummed, “Do you remember the dalliance you had with the Archbishop of Austin?”

Beckett laughed, “The one where you watched?”

“Mmn.” Anatole slowly pushed another finger into Beckett, nipping at his ear as he writhed against him, “I enjoyed that. We should ask Vykos if she’d allow us the pleasure.”

Beckett snorted, “I’m on thin ice with them already after tonight. I don’t want to push my luck and end up as a bookshelf.”

“I’m sure you’d make a lovely bookshelf.” Anatole angled his fingers slightly, and Beckett keened and clung to him, “But I understand perfectly that that’s not a life choice you want to make.” He pressed harder, and Beckett cried out, “Are you close?”

“Yes,” Beckett swallowed, “I want to wait,” he said, “Until you’re inside me.”

Anatole raised an eyebrow, “I’m happy to make you come more than once?”

Beckett shook his head, “I want to have about seven orgasms with you inside me, then spend the rest of the evening being lightly petted while someone whispers bible quotes in my ear.”

“Someone?”

“I had a specific person in mind.”

Anatole chuckled, withdrew his fingers, and stood, slowly unbuckling his belt and shucking his trousers, underwear and shoes off, “I’ll go and get Vykos, then,” he said, clambering into the bath and slotting himself between Beckett’s legs.

Beckett growled, lacing his fingers into Anatole’s hair, “You dare.”

Anatole kissed him again, and Beckett sort of switched off, his arms going slack around Anatole’s neck and his head lolling backwards onto the rim of the tub. He felt the press of Anatole against his thigh as the Malkavian shifted so as not to break the kiss. Beckett lazily hooked his ankles around the back of Anatole’s legs and urged him closer- not that he wasn’t enjoying the kissing, but he felt almost empty, and he desperately wanted Anatole inside him again.

Anatole broke the kiss, tucking a wet strand of hair behind Beckett’s ear, “Greedy little thing, aren’t you.”

Beckett made his best attempt at a pout, “You promised.”

Anatole smiled, shifting so he was just about resting against Beckett’s entrance, “I love you,”

Beckett lifted his head, burying his face in the crook of Anatole’s neck again, “Show me,” 

Anatole chuckled, then slid inside Beckett in a single slow, almost agonising motion. It almost felt like too much, but then Anatole’s hands were in his hair and his lips were on the shell of his ear and it didn’t seem to matter much any more.

“I love you.” whispered Anatole, again.

“I love you too.” said Beckett

Anatole shook his head, “I want to… Say what you said before.”

“Show me?”

Anatole smashed his lips against Beckett’s, rolling his hips in a slow, large circle. He broke the kiss, and withdrew from inside Beckett slightly, “I love you.”

“Show me,” said Beckett, pleased with himself for having figured out the game, and Anatole rewarded him with a series of careful, deep thrusts, the last of which hit something that made Beckett cry out and buck his hips back onto Anatole, “God, please-”

“Don’t blaspheme,” said Anatole, pinching Beckett’s side, then trailing his hand down so he had a good grip on Beckett’s hips, “Are you close?”

“Unbearably so,” Beckett attempted to grind down, but the combination of Anatole’s grip on him and his weakened state prevented him from getting much friction, “If you would just… Just let me…”

Anatole tutted, “You haven’t asked me.”

“Show me,” hissed Beckett, almost desperately, “Please, Anatole-”

“Show you what?”

Beckett sobbed, “Anything you want. Fuck me, breed me, use me, anything.”

Anatole laughed, “I wouldn’t want to use you. I love you, deeply and utterly.”

“Then show me.”

Anatole held Beckett closer to him, his teeth pricking at the muscle of Beckett’s shoulder, “May I?”

Beckett almost felt like laughing, “Yes, god, yes.”

Anatole clicked his tongue at the blasphemy, but sank his teeth into Beckett’s throat nonetheless. The sensation was almost familiar at this point, but it still made Beckett sob and dig his nails into Anatole’s back. He ground back down onto Anatole, desperate for friction, “Please, just… Please,” 

Anatole withdrew his fangs, “Are you asking for permission?”

“Yes? I just want-”

“Shh,” Anatole used one hand to cradle Beckett’s head to his chest, and trailed the fingers of the other down to press at Beckett’s clit, “Just let go.”

Something snapped, and Beckett felt himself whimper as he fell apart. He was vaguely aware of Anatole fucking him through it, of the gentle pressure of his lover being the only thing holding him together. He had but a second of clarity before Anatole whispered “Again?”- either verbally or through some strange psychic connection, he couldn’t quite tell- and Beckett was babbling something that he himself couldn’t quite understand, but he hoped to God that Anatole understood it was a yes.

His prayers had apparently been answered, because no sooner had he finished the thought than Anatole started moving again, and Beckett was so overstimulated that he could do little more than cling on as Anatole drove him to a second orgasm, then a third- though when he looked back on the events afterwards he’d swear that Anatole had used disciplines to achieve that one. He was shaking violently by the end of it, only just about able to keep himself together enough to lean into Anatole’s hand as he stroked Beckett’s hair.

“You did well,” murmured Anatole, “You did so very well.”

Beckett laughed, his voice trembling, “You did most of it.”

Anatole hummed, finally withdrawing from Beckett with a slow, deliberate motion, “You did the important bits.” He traced his knuckles along Beckett’s cheek, “Can you stand?”

“I’m not sure.” Beckett trailed one of his arms up Anatole’s back, coming to rest on his shoulder, “I don’t think I want to, really.”

Anatole huffed, leading Beckett’s arms to loop around his neck, “I spoil you.”

Beckett hummed, “There’s nothing in the bible against spoiling someone.”

“Against spoiling a child, maybe.” Anatole wrapped an arm around Beckett and stood, taking Beckett with him, “But you are not a child.”

“No,” said Beckett, “Just a fool.”

Anatole kissed his forehead, “My fool.”

Beckett smiled, “If you like,” he said, and let Anatole carry him to bed.


End file.
